


Private Lesson

by Elfwreck



Series: Power Play [5]
Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Hogwarts Sixth Year, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-02-01
Updated: 2005-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-11 18:12:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfwreck/pseuds/Elfwreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape controls the arena of Harry's new, dangerous game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by ghoulchick. Originally posted at <http://community.livejournal.com/snape_potter/381621.html>.

Control, manipulation, coercion… lessons in real power. Not force, but compulsion. Power needn't be _what you can do_ , which will always have limits, but can be _what you can make happen_ , which does not. And it includes endless variants of _what you can make others do_ , consciously nor not, willingly or not.

The "call and response" portion of church services is all about power. So is that idiotic "wave" practiced at Muggle sporting events. Most group activities are a systematic removal of individual power, either to hand it to a director, or to create chaos by removing all focus. But the direct, personal application of power is more subtle, more unique… _every action calls to its counterpoint, a careful dance of skill, and only at the conclusion is it apparent who was leading all along_.

He stands in my doorway. I pause before looking up; he's panting from almost-running. He radiates impatience and anger, and every emotion he shows is a tool in my hands. I clear my face of any expression, set down my quill, and look up at him.

He's glaring at me. I tilt my head; I wonder what he expects to get out of this visit. He takes a defiant stance and crosses his arms over his chest. I almost sigh; instead, I wave at him to shut the door so we can get on with this. He reaches back, never taking his eyes off me, and pulls it shut. _Oooh, very dramatic_. I sneer at him. His expression, already hard, darkens into a scowl. I raise one eyebrow. He steps toward my desk.

I stand up, suddenly, and he gasps as he looks up at me. He forgets how much taller I am. I smirk down at him. He gulps, eyes wide. I lean forward, over the desk, quickly enough that he takes a step back and almost slams into the door he's just closed. _Clumsy boy. Has no sense of the space he takes up._ I almost believe it's accidental. If I hadn't seen him on a broom, I'd be convinced.

"Mr. Potter." I speak slowly, so he has time to refocus. "I am not a member of your adoring fan club, and your obsessive attempts to draw my attention have become a near-constant strain on my time and resources. Ten points from Gryffindor for your self-indulgent antics."

He stammers, and reddens a bit. "I… I'm sorry, sir. I just thought… that is, I wanted to know…" he trails off. I roll my eyes. He can't even come up with an _excuse_ for following me around and staring at me. _Maybe he has no idea why he's here. Then again, maybe he's just as clumsy with words as he is on his feet._ He pouts at me. It makes him look three years younger; my lips twist at the thought. He's already too young for everything he's done, everything he's doing. He fidgets on his feet, letting his eyes wander around the room, trying not to meet my eyes. I slap the desk. He flinches.

"I expect you to pay attention when I'm talking to you—especially after all the effort you've gone through to persuade me to notice you." I walk around the desk as I'm speaking. "Five more points for woolgathering." He stands up straighter, in indignation, or perhaps just to meet my eyes. I can't tell. I stand very close to him, leaning just my head down; he cranes his neck back. I stare down at him for a moment.

He winks at me. Impertinent brat. I can feel my brow furrow in confusion. He smiles, a smug curve to his lips. I hiss as I continue to stare down at him. He runs his tongue over the edge of his lips, very slowly… my mouth goes slack, falls open. _Green eyes, pink tongue…_ He stretches his body upwards—I turn away from him, very quickly, before he sees me react. _Damn. He's taken the lead._

He grabs my sleeve as I start to step away. I whirl back around, my robes whipping into his legs hard enough to make him stumble. _Does he oil his shoes? This is ridiculous!_ I catch him before he can fall. He's tense, and grows more so at my touch. He looks away from me.

I put my lips near his ear, and whisper, "What game do you think you're playing, Potter? If you can't keep your balance with me, how will you face the Dark Lord?" He swallows hard. I pull him closer, and he closes his eyes, very tight. I close my teeth on his upper ear. A soft sound escapes him… he's not moving closer, but he's not pulling away, either. I bite down, sharp enough to hurt. A shudder ripples through his body. _Fascinating. No sound, just reaction._ When I chuckle softly, his eyes fly open. His breathing is ragged.

I pull him up until he's standing, my arm sliding up to his shoulder. He looks up at me with a lost expression. _Deliberate? Unconscious?_ My eyes narrow. He bites his lower lip. _I can't tell._ I slide my arm around to the front, making sure he's steady on his feet, and nudge him away from me. He shifts his weight, finding his balance. I wait for him.

"Professor?" he asks weakly. "I think… I n-need to learn…" His voice is plaintive; there's a question behind it that he can't even find. I put one finger to his lips, stopping his words. He stills. Then, very deliberately, his lips move against my finger—a small kiss. I slide my hand downward to his neck, and his breath catches in his throat. I tighten my grip so that he can just barely feel my fingernails. He groans, and I feel the vibration against my palm. I move him, pushing him backwards by his neck, just a step or two, until he can feel the wall behind him. His legs start to shake.

I press up against him, covering his body with mine. All the tension melts out of him, as he's caught between me and the wall, counting on one or the other to keep him upright. I trail my hand down between our chests, and he writhes ( _into? away from?_ ) at my touch. I stop moving when I reach his beltline— _how far will he let me go?_ —but he arches up toward my hand. My thumb rests on the edge of the trousers under his robes, and my fingers reach downward. He moans softly, unconsciously. I spread my fingers wide, and press gently against hardness. I can feel the shape of his cock straining under my hand. It twitches. A shiver runs through me, and I savor it.

One of his hands encircles my wrist. So he's decided to start taking a more active role. _Which direction will he move my hand?_ He lifts my hand away. _Ah. He does have some control, then._ Maybe Potter has learned something from our encounters. I start to pull away, but in one swift move, he grabs my hand harder, pulls my arm over my head, and pivots around my body so that he's pressing _me_ against the wall. I growl at his impudence, his presumption… his heat…

He trails his fingers lightly down my upstretched arm, his nails raking delicately over my skin. I breathe in sharply. He separates my legs with his thigh, and presses closer. I breathe out, very slowly. He presses his hip upward, into me… I know he can feel I'm as hard as he is. I put my hands on his shoulders. He starts moving his hip, twisting in slow circles, sending waves of pleasure through me. I can feel my fingertips tighten around his shoulders, digging through his robes. He thrusts upwards, once, sharply—sensation spikes through me—yet I manage to shove him away, just as sharply.

He falls down. ( _I will **not** sigh at his predictability._ )

He's sprawled out on my office floor, legs apart ( _of course_ ), arms wide from trying to catch his balance, shaken look on his face. _If my floor were a bed, his fingers would be just hanging off the sides, and his feet would be perfectly arranged to be tied to the lower posts._ It would seem that years of Quidditch practice have mainly taught him how to be visually appealing when he falls. I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes again. I must find a way to break him of this habit, teach him that "no repeats" doesn't just mean "in this session."

I meet his eyes. I can see him searching my face, trying to read my expression. He must not like what he finds; he pulls his legs together. Slowly. In tiny increments, as if he's trying to sneak this movement past me, even though I'm staring down at him. I shake my head, equally slowly, never looking away from his eyes. He reaches his hands behind to prop himself up, but I'm not letting him get away that easily. I move to stand directly over him, one foot on either side of his waist, looming over him. He begins to move backwards, but not quickly enough… I drop to my knees, landing firmly on his thighs. He squeaks.

He's halfway sitting up. I reach out… my arms are long enough that my fingers touch his face without either of us leaning forward. I rest my fingertips on his cheek. He turns… _toward_ … my hand. _Well. Not so much control, after all._ One finger traces his lower lip. His tongue darts out, touches my fingertip. I tap his lip sharply. I will not be distracted. He sighs, an almost inaudible breath.

I trail my finger down his throat while he arches his neck to give me access. I lean forward a bit as I slide my hand around to the back of his neck, and he relaxes the weight of his head into my hand. I stretch my fingers out through his hair, cradling his head… his hips squirm beneath me.

 _Time for a change of pace._ I grab his hair and sharply yank his head back as I press my full weight forward into his chest. His eyes snap back to mine in panic. I've disrupted whatever train of thought or desire he had… I'm not following the rules of the game he thought we were playing. I twist his head to one side so I can lean close to his ear, and whisper sharply. My voice is as harsh as I can make it.

"Your methods grow tedious. Lying helpless on your back got you safely through your first encounter with the Dark Lord, but that is no reason to indulge in the practice daily. Learn a new technique."

I see his shock. He _does not_ like to be reminded of the attack that gave him his scar. Anger, hurt and confusion battle for control of his face. He tries to pull away, to get out from under me, but I'm pulling his hair back, twisting his head from behind; my weight on his thighs is too much, and I'm leaning into his chest so he has no leverage. He squirms anyway, hoping agility will overcome strength.

I raise myself on my knees just a bit… and then thrust hard against him, pushing him downward and driving all thoughts out of him. He stops moving. I raise my hips once more, and press down again, very slowly, giving him time to feel every shift in my weight, the throb of my erection, the answering twitches in his own… giving him time to replace all his tangled emotions with pure arousal. His shudder starts where we're touching and ripples outward. He is so close, so close to release… heavy, shaken breathing ( _both of us_ ), gulping for air ( _been so long_ )… but I will not reward him ( _or myself?_ ) for hubris. Nor clumsiness.

I look back to his eyes. Through the naked lust I see questions. _Well. That's something. At least he's aware he's confused._ I wait while our breathing steadies, grows calm. He searches my face for answers. I consider trying to voice them, and feel my mouth twist into a smile. I realize I'm still pulling his hair back, he's still pulling against me, and I let go… his head jerks forward. I sit upright on his thighs, and pull him up so he's facing me. It's an awkward position; he needs one hand behind him for stability.

I wait. Several minutes pass in silence. He looks at my face… I watch emotions flicker in his eyes, but none of them is more than a spark. Without my responses, he's empty.

I know he can't stay like this. I'm too heavy for him, the angle is too uncomfortable. Eventually, he twists his ankles against the numbness, very carefully, trying not to let me notice. I smirk… I can feel his toes stretching against the tingles, feel his weight shifting on his fingertips. I stand up over him. He looks up, his eyes starting at my knees (just below where my eyes were), and tracing up my robe. He blushes as his eyes climb higher; by the time his eyes meet mine again, his face is completely red. I decide not to mock him.

I step back and away, and offer my hand to help him stand. He stares at it, and then back at my face. I raise an eyebrow. I wonder what great import he's placing on this simple action. He hesitates, then takes my hand; I pull him upright.

We stand there, facing each other. I don't drop his hand, and he doesn't pull away. _Interesting. I'm curious…_ I start making tiny circles on the back of his hand with my thumb. His eyes flutter closed, and his breath quivers. _Yes, very interesting._ I trace larger circles. He yanks his hand away, and I chuckle. He opens his eyes. Glares at me. I tilt my head, questioning. He starts to cross his arms over his chest… and then realizes that's where we started.

He flushes with embarrassment, and his shoulders drop. He turns away from me and mumbles.

"Sorry to have wasted your time, Professor. I… I won't bother you anymore. I'll just be going now." He shuffles toward the door, takes twelve tiny steps to cover the space of two quick ones. He fumbles with the latch, opens the door. I roll my eyes at his bizarre self-aggrandizing humility, but he can't see me. So much for all that vaunted Gryffindor courage.

When he's exactly halfway over the threshold, I say, "I expect you to return the same time next week." I don't offer any explanation. He hesitates, but doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge I've spoken.

He'll be back.


End file.
